You came in
seeking some kind of special love,
but I was already gone.
The record player’s
hiss and click
was all that remained
of our song.
There was a moment
when you maybe made
a secret, silent prayer;
maybe ruined,
maybe relieved;
I’ll never know, I guess.
I was travelling all alone in El Dorado,
picking up what work I could find there.
That the City of Gold was so hopeless,
I was unaware.
My feet led me to the door
of a tailor,
who taught me to mend clothes
as well as hearts.
Which seemed to me
the will of Jehovah,
for both of mine had come apart.
I came home
thinking that you would be waiting.
That I would take you in my arms
and kiss you hard.
I would lay you down so gently
and undress you
and I would tend your wounds
and mend your heart.
But that doorway,
it looked at me like a stranger
and the room was only occupied by dust.
The record player was gone
and so were you, my love;
I guess you’d given up.
If you read this,
know I’ve gone back to El Dorado.
That golden city’s not much,
but it’s there.
I left our favorite song playing
when I left here,
the notes hanging like dust in the air.
If you ever find yourself in El Dorado
and have a need to fix your summer dress,
let your feet lead you
to the door of a tailor;
come with a broken heart
and I will do the rest.
HG – 2017
